by Kayse, Joan
But this was not a frivolous matter he was asking, to aid a runaway slave. Damon set his jaw. He’d beg if need be for Jared’s assistance, which said a lot for how important this was as he had not knelt in supplication to anyone since his days as a slave. But if he was to go after Quintus, see Julia and her family safe, he would do so knowing his sister was free from Tertius’ grip.
“Done,” Jared said.
Damon released the breath he’d been holding.
“But how do you intend to get her away? Tertius believes you dead and unless you think to enter his domus as a ghost...”
He sent Jared a cool smile which had his friend shaking his head.
“Of course, your vast array of skills. How foolish I was to ask the obvious. My next ship does not leave Ostia until the end of next week. I would that your sister not leave sooner than a day before.”
Damon agreed. The less time before her absence was noted, the less time for the slave catchers to search. And they would search. Tertius Maximinus did not relinquish what was his easily. His own nightmarish snare of service to him was a fine example.
“I will pay you for the passage—”
Jared cut him off. “The debt is mine. If not for you I’d be a slave still, dead most likely with the brand of runaway scarring my face.” Jared looked over to where Bryna fussed with their son’s swaddling. “And I would not have Bryna.”
Damon shifted in place. The conversation was getting much too sentimental for his taste though the gratitude he held at having a friend such as Jared was making his chest feel uncomfortably full. He shrugged his shoulder. “Had I lingered that night and not arrived in time, it would have been no burden to care for your barbarian.”
Damon’s comment had the desire effect. Jared’s eyes turned to molten gold, the jealousy glinting from their depths like the sun off a sword. But then he smiled and it was Damon’s turn to be wary.
“Bryna would have been a challenge too large even for your myriad talents. But it hardly matters as I think your hands are full enough.”
Damon followed Jared’s smug gaze to the doorway where Julia stood looking, if it were humanly possible, even more beautiful than before. Her outward appearance had not changed. Dressed in her own tunica and stola she looked as lovely as he’d ever seen her. But there was something different, some inner confidence that shone from within her, lighting up her delicate features, adding a glimmer of heat in the gaze that latched onto him. It was nothing less than male pride that had him squaring his shoulders just a bit more than usual, knowing that he had had a role in putting it there.
“Julia, please come in. See my son,” said Bryna.
Damon watched Julia enter, raised a brow as she passed by them without a glance and went straight to the bed.
“Your reception might be a bit warmer had you selected a more suitable place than a stable to do your wooing.”
Damon shot Jared a withering glare but his friend only chuckled and joined the women in the admiration of his son.
“He is beautiful,” Julia was exclaiming when Damon joined them. His chest constricted a bit as he watched Julia curl the baby’s tiny fist around her finger. “What will you name him?”
“Well, you Romans have a very complicated system for the naming of a child,” Bryna answered, sending Jared a chiding look. “So I’ve not quite grasped the order of such things. But we’ve agreed on what his primary name will be. The one that we will call him by each day.”
“What is it?” asked Julia.
Jared and Bryna answered in unison. “Damon.”
Damon knew he must look like a gulping fish, for his mouth just fell open and he couldn’t speak. This losing of his eloquence was occurring with annoying regularity. What in the name of Jupiter—in fact Jupiter would be a luckier name—would possess them to name their child for someone like him?
“The answer is simple enough,” answered Bryna as if he’d voiced his shock out loud. “We hope that the name imparts upon young Damon the same attributes of his uncle.”
Damon struggled to keep his expression schooled into a placid mask but the roil of emotions flowing through threatened to wash it away. He knew he should say something but the words clogged his throat. And the intent way Julia studied him only added to his discomfort.
For once, Bryna took pity on him, ending the stunned silence. “In truth I could not think of a more appropriate name to use when I scold him.”
Jared and Julia both laughed and even Damon could not suppress a smile. He tilted his head, watched as Julia cooed over the baby. He’d never heard her laugh before and the sound of it shifted something deep within him. Gods, he had to get her situation sorted out, put distance between them. Get out of her life else he wasn’t completely sure he’d survive it. “It is time for us to depart.” Julia took the hand he extended and stood up.
“Your man arrived with a litter, mere minutes ago,” said Jared. “Dionysius had a time of it convincing him to wait.”
Ever reliable Kaj. They bid Bryna farewell, leaving Esther to tuck the new mother in for a nap. Jared walked with them to the door where Flavian stood waiting.
“My dear,” he said, taking Julia’s hands into his own, “please call on me if there is anything you need.”
Damon raised a brow at the look Flavian sent him but inclined his head respectfully. A slave opened the door, but before they could step through another stumbled up, panting for breath.
“Master,” said the young man, bowing low to Jared.
Jared cast them an apologetic look. “Calm yourself, Galen. I’ll be but a moment seeing our guests off, then you can give me the scroll.” He turned toward them. “We left the booksellers so quickly yesterday, I thought to surprise Bryna with the scroll of poems she’d been seeking.”
“I don’t have it, master,” panted Galen. “Ithacus, the bookseller—” He swallowed convulsively. “He is dead.”
Damon went cold. The grizzled bookseller? The kind, old man who had been friend and ally to Damon since his arrival in Rome?
It should not come as a shock, he was older than the Seven Hills themselves, and the old man had even bragged he’d known Romulus. But he’d been a constant in Damon’s life during his early years of service to Tertius. His crusty humor and biting wit had often kept Damon from despair. “He lived a full life, a long life,” he said at last, knowing the words were inadequate but it was the only tribute he’d be able to give at the moment.
“Yes,” answered Galen, taking another gulping breath, “and it should have been longer.”
“What do you mean?” asked Jared.
The slave encompassed them with a glance. “Ithacus’ throat was slit.”
Chapter Twenty
“For fuck’s sake, just do as I say!”
Damon pressed his mouth into a tight line against a wave of guilt, at the flash of hurt and shock that washed over Julia’s face. They’d been arguing for nearly an hour, her eyes still red and swollen from the tears she’d shed at word of Ithacus’ murder. A patrician weeping over a plebian she barely knew? Insane. Damon shoved down a stab of anger.
His rational mind could not fathom why such a thing would stir his fury. Julia was a kind, decent woman. She was neither self-absorbed nor inured to the suffering and struggles of people, even those of the lower classes. His people.
“It’s too dangerous,” she repeated, “You should not travel alone.”
Damon stared at her, masked his confusion behind a scowl. Not because it was dangerous, he knew that, though he hadn’t expected that the danger was swelling. No, what took him aback was Julia’s apparent fear for him. Him. The concern in her eyes was real, spawned not out of fear he’d vanish and leave his obligation unfulfilled but because she was worried for him.
The sentiment warmed him inside and underscored the fact that time had become of the essence. Quintus was not a man to bide his time, not if there was something he wanted, needed, to survive. Damon had no doubt that the Prefect had been behind Ithacus’ murder, that
one of his minions had traced their path there and killed the old man as a warning. He pressed his lips together grimly. And with ruthless men like Quintus, the warnings would only worsen and jeopardize Julia.
And he would not let that happen.
“Woman, I do not need you,” he barked, inflecting enough harshness in his tone to temper the concern in her eyes with a bit of fire.
“The Master speaks the truth,” rumbled Kaj.
Damon glanced at Kaj. The servant had arrived only moments after the household learned of Ithacus’ death and sent a clear warning glare to Damon that he was not pleased. Only the man’s recognition of societal restraints had kept him from throttling Damon on the spot. Speaking of danger.
To hell with it. He didn’t care why Kaj was supporting him, as long as Julia was safe. “We can’t argue with the pirate.”
Kaj scowled. “Mistress Sophia and Lares are distraught, mistress.”
Julia sent a hesitant look to Kaj and Damon took full advantage. “You’re needed at home, Julia. Your family needs you.” I need you. “My errand will not take overlong.”
Julia straightened her shoulders, donned her patrician mask and nodded once. “Fine. Be certain that it does not.”
Damon’s heart tripped at the autocratic tone of her voice. Then Julia’s expression softened, her eyes once more filled with worry. He barely registered the low exasperated moan from Kaj as she glided over to him, wrapped her arms around his neck and branded his mouth with a long, hungry kiss. She pulled free, framed his face with her hands and stared into his eyes. “Come home safe. Come home to us.”
*****
Damon was still reeling from the passion of Julia’s farewell as he walked down the stone-lined street.
After striking him speechless—something that was happening with annoying regularity—his goddess had spun on her heel and left with Kaj. Filled with relief and regret, he’d turned his attention to Jared.
He’d pulled Jared aside and told him to forget his request. He’d find another way to get his family out of Rome. He would not endanger Jared and his family although if he and Julia had been tracked to the bookseller, Quintus’ men could very well have followed them to Flavian’s house.
But Jared had refused to withdraw his offer of help. Oh, he didn’t take it lightly, the potential threat, he’d assured Damon and immediately called on Bryna’s ex-gladiator brother Bran for assistance. The reticent barbarian had listened to the concerns with only a cold stare at Damon—damn between he and Kaj, Damon should be nothing but a singed mark on the pavement—before he’d left to see to the security of the household. The ship, Jared had assured Damon, would be waiting as planned.
The next step would be to convince his mother.
He slowed as he approached his mother’s domus. It took an enormous amount of coin to rent a villa in the heart of Rome’s most affluent district. Damon ran a critical eye over the plain, but elegant façade of the one where his mother currently resided. Fortunately, Chryse Primax had more than enough gold and silver to cover the cost. She was very successful at what she did. The aediles that regulated the trade of flesh lived only two buildings away and would likely expire in a fit of offended sensibilities if he knew one of the most prominent prostitutes in the Roman Empire resided so close. The official profited in coin and standing in managing the erotic activities of the Empire, but he’d die of apoplexy to learn of its proximity to his pure Roman household.
He walked up the ornamental path from the street to the door. Damon took a deep breath and rapped on the door.
It took several long minutes before a small trapdoor opened and a bulging eye glared out at him.
“We do not receive visitors at such an early hour,” the eye growled at him. “Be gone.”
Early hour? It was nearly midday. “I would speak with Chryse. It is a matter of some import.”
“My lady is abed and has left strict orders not to be disturbed.”
Damon leaned toward the opening and said between clenched teeth. “Your lady will speak with her son.”
The eye rolled around before finally focusing on Damon’s rigid form. The small door snapped close and in moments, the outer one swung inward.
Damon stepped into the marble atrium. He did not know how long his mother had been in Rome, but it had been long enough that she had added her own unique touches to the house. There were multi-colored curtains hanging from the ceiling to the floor, each panel leading to a different portion of the structure. In the alae, or alcoves, along the walls of the entry the traditional busts of ancestors had been replaced with erotic statuary of men and women in the throes of coitus and in various positions, two of which he had never thought of and—he tilted his head for a better view—wasn’t entirely sure were possible.
“You will wait here,” intoned the butler.
Only because he chose to. Damon roamed the atrium. It had been six months since he’d last seen his mother, the longest he’d gone since finding her. After his manumission, finding his family had been his first priority. Jared had offered assistance by using his influence to locate the slaver who had handled the transaction for his family. The man had proved to be a poor record keeper and no entries for either himself or his sisters were found. Damon’s bitter disappointment had been tempered at the discovery of a bill of sale for one thirty-year-old woman named Chryse to a Greek resident of Alexandria.
Damon had been thrilled. After all, he’d spent the better part of his servitude living with Jared in that very city. The thought that his mother may have passed him on the street or labored in a nearby household all those years had filled him with hope.
Night and day he’d followed leads, questioned informants, honing skills he’d later employed as a spy. Finally, after three months of intensive searching, he’d received information that a woman named Chryse known to be from Rome was living in a modest villa on the outskirts of the city. Nearly sick with excitement he had raced to the designated street only to discover the house to be a brothel and the mother he’d not seen in eight years was the proprietor.
Echoes of emotion still rang at the memory. Shame, horror, renewed anger at his father—at his mother for circumstances she’d had no more control over than he. He’d thought to walk away, just leave, but too many years of yearning for a mother’s comfort gave him the strength to knock on the door. Once he’d recovered from the shock of finding his mother in those circumstances, he’d forced himself to listen to her tale.
Sold into sexual servitude by the Greek entrepreneur who had purchased her, his mother had spent two years catering to the desires of wealthy clients. Smitten by his beautiful and profitable slave, her master had granted Chryse her freedom and on his death, willed her the establishment.
She was a Roman matron, Damon had angrily reminded her and she, given the same temperament as her son, had vehemently reminded him that it was her husband, a Roman equite of good name and noble family who had put her into this position and—he could still hear her voice choking with emotion—sent her children into slavery. One did what one must to survive she’d added in a strained whisper.
Damon thought of his own choices. Survival. Some of the hardest choices in life stemmed from that one goal.
“Damon, my son.”
Damon turned to the sloping steps leading to the upper floor and watched his mother glide down them. Chyrse was still a beautiful woman, her face only slightly creased at the eyes which were as silver gray as his own. Roused from sleep, she wore a plain robe of turquoise and her rich, brown hair was pulled back in a simple braid. Her face was free from the heavy makeup of her trade presenting Damon with the mother he’d always loved.
“Mother, you look well,” he said, accepting her embrace and kissing both of her smooth cheeks.
“I am always well when I see my children.” She gripped his hands and searched his eyes. “Lita?”
Damon glanced down at their clasped hands. “She remains in Tertius’ household.”
His answ
er seemed to deflate Chryse and for a moment, the illusion of youthfulness paled. She forced a smile, patted his hand. “I know you will earn her freedom soon. You have worked so hard, first for Tullia who, thank the gods, thrives with her new husband. You will see our Lita free.”
He took a steadying breath. “Mother, I am no longer in service to Tertius.”
Chryse’s brave expression crumbled and Damon could almost hear her hopes crashing to the tile beneath their feet. Old feelings of responsibility and guilt surfaced, gnawed at his heart which clutched at the look of despair in his mother’s eyes.
“I...I do not understand,” she said in a hoarse voice.
Damon looked around, noted they were alone save the bug-eyed servant though in this type of establishment the walls were known to have ears. “Is there some place private we can speak?”
Chryse hesitated then nodded and after giving her man instructions to have refreshments brought to her chamber, laced her cold hand in Damon’s and led the way up the stairs.
Damon balked at entering his mother’s sleeping chamber, not with the knowledge of what occurred there most nights. Chryse’s lips tilted into a rueful smile. “Come. I have an anteroom that is most comfortable.”
Damon followed her into a spacious room lined with couches of red silk. A golden lyre lay on an equally sumptuous pillow, easily at hand to entertain the house’s guests. There was plenty of room for dancers, he noted or other entertainments he’d just as soon not consider with his mother playing a role.
He paced the room, felt his mother’s quiet gaze following him. How much should he reveal, he wondered. She could be endangered too and despite his reservations about her profession, he had no desire to lose her again.
A sleepy-eyed maid arrived with a platter filled with exotic fruits, honey cakes and cool, red wine which he poured into a goblet and downed in two long swallows.
“Son, tell me what has happened,” Chryse said, sipping her drink in a more leisurely fashion.
He did, skimming over the details of his near execution the mere mention of which had Chryse paling, to his rescue by a new employer and his plan to spirit Lita away from Tertius.
